The Grunt’s War

By 1967, protesters were gathering regularly in Lafayette Park across the street from the White House. They’d hold signs, give speeches and chant: “Hey, hey, L.B.J. How many babies did you kill today?”

Implicit in the chant was the instrument of Lyndon B. Johnson’s brutal, inhuman policy: the young men fighting in Vietnam. And it didn’t take much for many Americans, especially war protesters, to decide that the soldiers were themselves brutal and inhuman — leading to an ugly backlash against returning servicemen. In one case, a young man accosted a veteran missing an arm at a Colorado college in 1968. He asked, “Get that in Vietnam?”

The veteran said yes.

“Serves you right,” the man said.

Long after the war ended, the idea of the Vietnam veteran as an amoral, drug-addled, even psychopathic baby killer pervaded American culture, cropping up in films like “Taxi Driver,” “First Blood” and “Jacob’s Ladder.” But those stereotypes are flawed. A vast majority of Americans who served never committed atrocities; they fought bravely against a determined enemy in harsh conditions, and they reintegrated into society and made substantial contributions over the years.

This was especially true of those who were fighting in 1967, when the troop level reached more than 480,000. Whether recent recruit or veteran, most of those troops went to Vietnam that year as individuals, sent to replace those finishing their one-year tours (13 months for the Marines). But while each had his own story, there was a common experience, one that belied many of the stereotypes.
For one thing, like their fathers in World War II, many had volunteered. Countless shared the view of an Arizona veteran I interviewed: “ They didn’t have to draft us. It was a part of what we were supposed to do.” As he saw it, “It was part of my duty as a man.”





Others found themselves ensnared by the draft. As one veteran noted, “The Selective Service sword of Damocles had been hanging over our head since we all turned 18.” Still, a large majority of those drafted in 1967 answered their country’s call: Only 7,234 of the 298,559 men who were drafted failed to report for duty that year. “I guess I just accepted it and figured, ‘Hey, let’s go give it a shot — make the best of it,’ ” one veteran told me.

Wherever the men were coming from, they either boarded crowded troop ships (many from World War II) or left on planes; in the latter case, in less than 24 hours, they went from home to a war zone. One soldier said that upon arriving in Vietnam, he “felt like Alice stepping through the looking glass.” The heavy odor of jet fuel and feeling like being in a “very smelly sauna” took his breath away. As he stepped off the plane, a stewardess mouthed “good luck.” “I knew my life would never be the same from this moment on,” he recalled. “This was the initiation into my rites of passage.”

The experiences of service members in Vietnam often differed depending on location, type of service and, above all, timing. Some rarely left the relatively safe confines of the major bases, working as clerks, accountants and mechanics. Others were thrown into combat; an astounding 997 men were killed on their first day in Vietnam.
While 2.3 million men and women served in the Vietnam theater, the hard fighting fell on a relatively small percentage of those men, primarily the infantry and close support, like artillerymen, tank crews and pilots. And it’s true that many of those men experienced psychological and emotional difficulties. A veteran admitted crying “for the suffering, the pain, and for the fear that invades you because you don’t know when you’re going to die.” But few of them broke; most conquered the fear (and often the boredom) of searching for an elusive guerrilla enemy in the South, or fighting pitched battles in the northern war zones against hardened North Vietnamese Army regulars.

Where men did sometimes break, and where they were most liable to commit war crimes, was in the South. Being unable to identify the enemy created overwhelming stress. A barber or laundress on base or a peasant working in the fields during the day might lay booby traps at night. This led to atrocities: Rogue members of the anti-guerrilla Tiger Force killed hundreds of civilians; in March 1968, American soldiers killed hundreds more at the South Vietnamese village of My Lai.

But war crimes were very far from common. Indeed, for each atrocity, there were many more acts of kindness toward civilians and bravery in combat. Soldiers rebuilt schools, homes and roads, often on their own initiative; 244 Americans received the Medal of Honor, more than in World War I and Korea combined.
Most men, wherever they were, just wanted to go home. Few had any illusions about how the war would shape the rest of their lives, but they also pined for their old normal existence, and a return to their families and hometowns. Few veterans can forget the day they left Vietnam, most walking up the steps of a “Freedom Bird” airliner for the trip home. One recalled, “Boy, everybody stood up and cheered when the pilot announced we were crossing into the United States.”

But those returning received few parades or recognition, and often felt isolated from their countrymen. One remembered his sister asking, “Who are you fighting for, the North Vietnamese or the other guys?” He lamented: “I knew that nobody back here understood what was happening. Because if my own family didn’t know, what hope did I have with somebody who even know me?”

The disconnection and boredom of life stateside led some to return to Vietnam for another tour. Nonetheless, the majority persevered back home. As one said: “Most of the veterans returned home reasonably whole, as whole as returning veterans from earlier wars. The majority were not dopers, did not beat their wives or children, did not commit suicide, did not haunt the unemployment offices, and did not boozily sink into despair and futility.”





They hid their emotional scars, just as their fathers had after World War II, though they bore the added injury of an angry, often disrespectful America. They were forced to carry the weight of political and military decisions, to answer for Johnson and William Westmoreland, whether they agreed with them or not. This, in a way, is where the stereotype of the fragile veteran finds some truth — not in the war itself, but in the reception, back home. As the writer Tim O’Brien noted, “Some vets, more than a decade later, have not yet recovered, and some never will.”

Still, polls show that a vast majority of Vietnam veterans are proud of their service and sacrifice.

This isn’t to say that Vietnam veterans were no different from those of other wars; the unique experiences of that war created unique challenges at home. Thousands suffered the long-term effects of Agent Orange; thousands more, especially those who served later in the war, came home with drug and alcohol problems, or later developed them as coping mechanisms.

But lost in that stereotype is the strength of the response from the veteran community. Veteran activists revolutionized the Veterans Administration health system, demanding — and winning — better care. Others, like Bob Kerrey, Max Cleland, Chuck Hagel and John McCain, moved into politics, where they worked on behalf of fellow veterans. And they built the Wall — the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Founded by veterans and funded through private donations, the wall gave veterans a place to heal, not just themselves, but their often frayed bonds with their fellow Americans.

Of the 298,559 men who entered service in 1967, 11,363 did not return from Vietnam. Most veterans understand the feelings of an anonymous author who said: “War drew us from our homeland in the sunlit springtime of our youth. Those who did not come back alive remain in perpetual springtime, forever young, and a part of them is with us always.”